


Prologue

by dark_muse_iris



Series: Call Me Mistress [1]
Category: K-pop, 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Alternate Universe - Prostitution, BDSM, Dom/sub, F/M, Femdom, Originally Posted on Tumblr, POV Second Person, Prostitution, Sex Work, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-16 01:17:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16075349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dark_muse_iris/pseuds/dark_muse_iris
Summary: A collection of stories recounting the titillating work of the domme known only as the Mistress.Excerpt:You reflected on how much control over your life you had these days: no debt, no employer, no obligation to anyone. The clients were selected by you ultimately, not the other way around. Sure, they were paying customers who expected a service be fulfilled, but you had enough money saved up to walk away at any time. Year after year, you stayed in this business because you enjoyed this part of yourself, the part that gave you the power to snap your fingers and be obeyed, the part that had perfected the skill of pulling a powerful orgasm out of a whimpering, pleading client. And as you glided the sanguine shade across your lips, you mulled over these positives and moreover, found the Mistress again.“Goodbye, Catherine,” you murmured, looking pleased with your transformation.





	Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I started this series over a year ago and it's become one of the most rewarding writing projects I've embarked on in fan fiction. It started out as a reader-insert, but over time the series grew into a much more developed body of work (partially due to love and feedback), so I changed the "Reader" to an original character, giving her a name and backstory she deserved. 
> 
> The series is written in 2nd person POV from the original character's perspective, and I did that deliberately after receiving a lot of messages from young women who have always wanted to dominate but have yet to work up the courage. The series is, in part, a sandbox for kinks to play in, where a reader can pretend and experience the action in a more direct way. 
> 
> Each story can be read independently of each other, on the chance there are certain kinks that are a hard "no," but I would encourage you to read everything in the order they're released. There is an overarching story to take in, but I think you can only feel the full effect of it by reading everything. I have a set of stories that I consider to be "the canon," and they are centered on BTS (with some guest appearances from other idols). Due to overwhelming feedback I've received on other platforms, I will be writing additional stories for other idols, which I refer to as "the expanded universe" of stories. There's going to be a shit-ton of content. I'm sitting on at least another year of stories for just this series. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

The steam from the hot shower clung to the glass of the mirror in your modest bathroom. As the light, metallic clangs of the shower curtain rings signaled your emergence from its depths, you felt reborn—a life-form with new skin and renewed purpose.

The flat of your palm swiped over the surface area of the glass, clearing the condensation to reveal your reflection. Time had begun to wear on your skin's elasticity, but you took comfort in knowing that after this ritual, you wouldn't be  _you_  anymore. You would become  _her_ , the creature underneath who commanded respect and attention—the woman who refused to settle for anything less than complete obedience. And she would have it, by calling the shots, controlling the world around her with stern, authoritative words meant to both entice and to scare...well, maybe just a little. And the anticipation of becoming her once again made a smile crawl across your freshly-washed face.

Perhaps you enjoyed it too much, this identity you built for yourself, but it was hard to argue against its power when your bills were getting paid every month by servicing clients who wanted to be dominated and held under your will time and again. Most of your clients were in well-paying, prestigious positions. Their jobs were often very taxing on both their time and energy, so the prospect of dating like normal people was a foreign concept for many of them. It was of no consequence to you, however; as long as they sent the money to your account before their appointment, you would continue to provide your services whenever they called. And some called quite often.

And so many evenings were spent in this routine, so much so that it felt sacred, the way you methodically prepared to assume your other identity. Your towel fell to the floor in a crumpled pile, the edges of it tickling your feet, as your hands pumped liberally at the head of the body lotion bottle resting on the white quartz countertop of your vanity. The thick cream was firmly rubbed into the pores and crevices of your skin, preparing it for the work ahead.  _I wonder if I should wear my hair up or down_ , you pondered, as you squeezed a dollop of moisturizer onto your fingertips. You pressed the pads of your fingers into the warm flesh of your cheeks, and you beheld the tiredness in your eyes. They weren't as jovial as they had once been in your youth, but they were wiser now, filled with years of experience and knowledge from the scores of clients who had come and gone.

The light patter of your bare feet against the wooden floor ushered you into your spacious walk-in closet. A sigh of satisfaction could be heard as your eyes raked over the increasingly diverse articles of dominatrix-themed clothing you had acquired over the years. It was a relief to have so many choices to select from, as you still remembered the days when you barely had a pot to piss in, let alone a proper wardrobe. Your closet, if anything, was a testament to how far you had come—pulling yourself out of debt one begging client at a time.

Your client for tonight was a fan of ebony, easily the color of your tradecraft. Considering your plans for him this evening, you selected your lingerie carefully, choosing a more traditional set of black thigh-high nylon stockings to pair with the black bra, panties, and garter belt ensemble you regularly wore for work.  _He would enjoy that very much_ , you thought, lightly tracing your finger across the sheer material of the hosiery.

The last two pieces for your outfit would certainly have to be your fitted black leather skirt and crimson-colored bodice. The skirt was always a signature piece for you, as the leather reminded your submissives of all the instruments of your employ which were made from the same material. The bodice was a compromise for yourself; on most evenings you were standing, walking around, so you could wear practically anything. But tonight, you knew your client would require a lot of seated attention. Something too constricting like a corset could make giving orders more difficult, and it was essential that your instructions be communicated clearly and firmly, especially since the client relationship was still developing. As luck would have it, this particular bodice had black lace trimming across the chest, so you hoped it would distract your client enough to get him into a little bit of trouble, as scolding for staring without permission was one of your favorite activities.

After slipping into each sinful selection, you examined your fully-assembled attire in your long mirror, making mental notes of what arrangement of makeup should be used. The choice of the bodice settled the earlier question of hairstyle, as the lacy top was intricate enough to remain on display at all times. You returned to the bathroom, liberally sprayed some root-lifting spray and heat protectant, then began to dry your hair. The strands whipped against your face as you dried it upside down to help break in the bodice as well as bless your hair with more volume. A puffy cloud of hair was the ultimate result, making you chuckle to yourself for looking ridiculous. Admittedly, a teeny part of you wondered if you could maintain character with this much hair billowing out from your scalp, but you knew if you showed up to a client's house this way, there would be a chance they wouldn’t tip.

Combing down the fluffy hair to more realistic dimensions, you decided on a classic French twist. It was a common selection for you in this line of work, but you favored the way the excess strands of hair framed your face and teased around the slope of your neck. It drove some of your clients wild, as they would see the pieces tickle and touch your clavicle when they weren't allowed to. Your chest would remain open and unadorned by jewelry, but a hairstyle like this one always required proper earrings, preferably long, dangling ones to further entice your submissives.

As your fingertips fetched a pair of earrings from your jewelry box, you remembered the long-term client who gave them to you as a thank-you gift. It was uncommon to have a man thank you for making him wince and pant like a wounded animal for over two hours, but this one was very much a willing participant. You found his countenance to be very sweet as a submissive, only a bit bratty, but you always thought fondly of him when you put the earrings on. Perhaps you would give him a special treat in your next session together.

The small squeak of your makeup drawer presented a wide array of pigments and options for the evening. You hadn't been working with this evening’s client very long, and you registered that he was still feeling a little shy about coming out of his shell, so you settled on more traditional makeup selections. The choices were meant to make your face appear more trusting, although you knew the source of his shyness had more to do with the acts he performed rather than your appearance. In either case, you wanted your client to feel comfortable, so you were light on the CC cream and concealer, focusing primarily on correcting blemishes and covering up the dark circles under your eyes. You didn't wish to look like a cakey painted whore, as you learned early on in your line of work that your clients—men especially—preferred dommes who could blend in with the public and operate unnoticed. As you began to apply coverage, the thought of working publicly again crept into your mind, and you smiled to yourself. There hadn't been a true exhibitionist in your client list for some time, but you had suspicions that one of your regulars may be up for it soon, with a little bit of encouragement.

Your eye makeup was a very simple, thin winged eyeliner with a little bit of gray eyeshadow for a light smoky effect. There was no point in looking like nightclub bait for a client as attached as this one, but you made sure your eye makeup always contained a little extra effort to make your eyes more alluring. After all, much of your control over your obedient clientele was maintained with your eyes. You took the additional time to fill in your eyebrows tastefully without looking overdone, then selected a deep cerise blush to accentuate the apples of your cheeks. As the soft bristles of the blush brush swept along your skin, you could almost see her, your assumed identity, taking shape.

The final article of makeup was easily the most important—the shade of lipstick. You prepped the plump petals of your mouth with a reliable lip balm to provide that long-lasting moisturized base for the evening. You ran your finger along the tops of all your assorted lipsticks, planting the deciding digit on a dark crimson color to tie your blush and bodice together. As the lipstick opened with a small click, you could feel an excitable undercurrent in your belly. Perhaps it was stage jitters, as you felt your job was very much a theatrical performance. But although it still made you nervous at times, you always felt happy and satisfied to be in this line of work.

You reflected on how much control over your life you had these days: no debt, no employer, no obligation to anyone. The clients were selected by  _you_  ultimately, not the other way around. Sure, they were paying customers who expected a service be fulfilled, but you had enough money saved up to walk away at any time. Year after year, you stayed in this business because you enjoyed this part of yourself, the part that gave you the power to snap your fingers and be obeyed, the part that had perfected the skill of pulling a powerful orgasm out of a whimpering, pleading client. And as you glided the sanguine shade across your lips, you mulled over these positives and moreover, found the Mistress again.

“Goodbye, Catherine,” you murmured, looking pleased with your transformation.

You strolled into your living room to find your trusted pair of black heeled boots. They were incredibly expensive, as good leather often is, but these were truly your favorites as they were well-broken in from endless hours of pacing around scores of kneeling clients. You grinned at the soft whir of zippers as they traced along the bends of your calves towards your knees. Taking a saunter around the room, you confirmed them to be the proper shoes for your upcoming appointment.

Looking over at your large, black leather bag sitting innocently on your sofa, you made a mental review of the contents inside, ensuring you had everything you needed for this evening. To the unsuspecting eye, the bag looked like a simple overnight bag. Most would never venture to guess the vessel contained the tools and trappings of a career sex worker. Rummaging through the bag of secrets and checking items off in your head made you feel assured that you were ready for the night’s work and all its tantalizing tasks to perform. You had seen it all—done it all—and were always prepared for anything.

You fetched your long black overcoat and slid it over your frame, tying the belt securely to hide the scandalous attire of your trade. Gathering up the large black bag and slinging it over your shoulder, you made for the front door to head to your appointment. As your keys locked the door and slipped back into your coat pocket, you heard the chime of your work cell, the burner phone used exclusively for business.  _Right on time_ , you smirked.

Reading the number on the caller ID and recognizing it as “River,” your client for the evening, you answered in your assumed identity's sultry voice, "Hello, pet."

The deep voice on the other end sounded nervous, but quite excited you answered his call.

“Good evening, Mistress.”

 


End file.
